


Your House, Not Your Home

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Age Difference, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate drags Clint along to a fundraiser, and she gets bored. Things sort of snowball from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your House, Not Your Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subjunctive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/gifts).



> Based on your prompts _Kate's family and attending all her parents' boring rich people parties_ as well as _Kate dragging Clint to stuff and them making their own fun_. I also couldn't pass up the opportunity to write them ~together, something we apparently both have a soft spot for ~~though mine's, errr, rather massive~~. Given more time I'd totally have tried to write you that Circus AU, but, alas. 
> 
> Beta-read by totallybalanced, who also brainstormed with me and came up with the initial lines of dialog. Thanks so much! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "A Girl And His Cat" by Biffy Clyro (paraphrased)

One of the things Kate's father values most are their Sunday dinners. Coincidentally, they're pretty high on the list of things Kate's grown to _hate_. She liked them just fine when they were still a family. Now her mother is gone, her sister has become someone she doesn't even recognize anymore, and next to her dad sits a gold-digger not that much older than her. 

Kate doesn't know why she still bothers. But her dad is still her dad, and that fleeting look of disappointment he sent her way the last time she bailed on dinner was enough to last a while. Billy had texted her about a robbery downtown, being an Avenger is not something that could wait until after desert was done, and she had no way to explain why she had to leave. So, she shows up. Every Sunday, on the dot, she's there. And every so often, she regrets it just as soon as her ass hits the chair.

“Katherine,” her dad says, and his tone tells her that she's not going to like what'd come out of his mouth next. "I don't know if you're aware, but the yearly fundraiser in honor of your mother will be next Saturday.“ He pauses, looks away. “And you're expected to show up.“

 _Expected to show up_. Like it's not him who wants her there, but the company. Nothing sentimental, god forbid, but business. She's there every year, if she wasn't people would talk. And her father _hates_ it when people talk about their family in the wrong way. Kate chews on her forkfull of peas longer than she'd needs to, swallows them down with a sip of obscenely expensive table water. She wants to say no. But her father pays her rent, and her expenses, and she knows that every once in a while, she's got no choice but to pay him back by being a good and obedient daughter. Pretending to be, anyway.

“Okay,” she says. 

Her father's eyebrows shoot up, surprised, like he expected an argument. They smooth out quickly, leaving him looking complacent, and Kate immediately regrets not putting up more of a struggle, realizing she would've gotten away with it. “Good. Glad to hear that. Ohh, and Katherine, do you have a plus-one, or should I find someone for you –“

“No need,” she interrupts him, too fast and too loud, making Heather – her step mother – look away with a theatrical huff. “There's someone I can ask.”

 

***

 

She decides to broach the subject with Clint over breakfast two days later. She's stayed the night, which is still new, and sort of awesome but also sort of terrifying, but hey, Clint's a guy and guys are more agreeable after a night of naked fandango, right? Plus, there's no better time to ask Clint Barton anything than when he's only half-awake and got a pot of freshly brewed coffee in front of him. Now or never.

“Hey,” she starts, aiming for a casual by-the-way, and apparently he's not quite as sleep-dumb as she'd figured. Because he leans back, eyes her, and takes a long gulp straight out of the pot before she can even get out the question. Or lead up to it. Or say anything else than that one word. She lets her shoulders sag. Point for Barton.

“What is it, Katie? What can I do for you?” he asks, not quite mocking, but also not leaving any doubt that he's pleased with himself for having looked right through her.

She sighs. “There's this fundraiser, and my dad asked me to come. Well. It wasn't much of a question. And I can either pick a guy as my date, or have my dad choose some sleazy upper-class kid to accompany me, and that'd make a terrible night worse, and I thought, uh, I'd ask you. To come with me. Not as a date, I mean, nothing like that, just to, you know.”

Because they're not dating. Kate's not quite sure what it is that they're doing, but it's not dating. They're firmly on the same page about that. Quite frankly, it was enough of a dance to get Clint to a point where he can admit to wanting her _that way_ after all, and neither of them's the type for restaurants and roses. She can do without defining this. It's fun, it hasn't changed them in any significant way, and she wants to keep doing it. That's enough for now.

“Save you from getting bored to death?” He grins, wide and obnoxious, and Kate's not sure if she wants to smack him upside the head or kiss him. “You're in luck, I happen to save people for a living.”

She does settle for smacking him, which causes him to spill some coffee over this leg, and then kissing him quiet when he swears a blue streak while he tries to fish for a napkin without getting up _or_ letting go of the pot.

 

***

 

Half an hour into the gala dinner, Kate decides there's upsides and downsides to attending this thing. Clint Barton in a tux is definitely an upside. She already knew he cleans up well if he really tries – totally not half the reason why she asked him and not Billy, she'll swear to that – and doesn't mind the repeat performance. Broad shoulders and all. Nice to look at, for sure.

As for the downsides, well. She's so bored that _bored_ might not even quite cover it anymore. She's something else. Something worse. Kate can deal with the reception and the small talk and the dancing afterward, but the dinner is the worst part of the whole evening. Everyone's anxiously trying to make sure they'll give the most important people within earshot the appropriate amount of attention, the conversation is stilted, and no one – absolutely no one – actually eats. Except for Clint, that is. He seems unaware that society dinners have a lot of purposes, but leaving the table full and well-fed isn't one of them.

Kate has to suppress a giggle as she watches him munch away at a plate full of cheese sticks and mini-quiches and the fancy version of pigs in a blanket – apparently the actual dinner, something with fish and herbs, wasn't to his liking – while the elitist business VIPs around them stare and scrunch their noses.

To distract herself, she squeezes his knee under the table, which has him almost choke on his mini-quiche and send a downright panicked glance to her father. Given that he once had a boyfriend of hers run off the property with a shotgun usually meant for dear hunting, it's a fair concern.

Grinning widely, Kate inches her hand further up. This time he does choke.

“Stop that,” he hisses under his breath, catching her hand with his and very pointedly placing it on her own leg. She contemplates to keep going anyway, but he's here to do her a favor, and she's not so spoiled that she can't appreciate that. She's got to find other sources of entertainment, then.

A few seats down the table, there's a bald guy, built like a brick house, brightly-colored dress shirt so tight on him it looks like it might burst at any hectic movements. New-rich, Kate guesses. Probably won the lottery, or struck gold with some kind of business deal. But what if he isn't? What if he's a paid killer, trying to fit in to get close to his next victim? She ignores the fact that paid killers will surely try to blend in a lot better than that – avoid to draw too much attention, be forgettable. That's not the point. 

Who could be his target? The old broad to his left, with the too-big pearl earrings and the dress that has more in common with a drape than actual fashion? Or the nerdy guy to his right, surely here due to the success of his start-up and bound to be bankrupt before the year is out?

She can feel Clint's eyes on her, and when she catches his gaze he's got his nose wrinkled a little and his eyebrows cocked, like he's worried she's cooking up more mischief at his expense. Kate elbows him, nods her head towards another guy who's just rising from his seat across the table from them. "Look at that guy! He's wearing a pink bow tie, and he's got that look about him. You just know he's probably got ties to the mob."

Clint's expression immediately morphs into puzzled exasperation. “He... What? Kate, I don't see how –"

Kate dabs her napkin at her mouth despite not having eaten much at all, then pushes her chair back and pulls at his sleeve. “Let's go check him out.”

With a sigh and a longing look back at his plate, Clint complies. Just a few weeks of not-dating, and he's got the long-suffering boyfriend down to a T. She should probably be impressed. 

Ignoring both him and the seething glare Heather sends her way when they slip out of the room, Kate drags Clint along as she follows the shady bow tie-guy through the hallways, down a few flights of stairs and to the extensive garage. It's been cleared out for today, and the big numbers get to park right here while the more ordinary folks have to content themselves with the car park across the street. 

Clint obviously doesn’t take this too seriously, slipping out of cover all the time, groaning when she pokes a finger at him to remain well-hidden as they observe the guy marching past the row of parked cars. Expensive cars. Cars worth stealing.

Maybe it’s not the mob after all.

She leans over to whisper into Clint’s ear, enjoying the way his body straightens when her breasts brush his side but not willing to allow herself to get distracted. They’re on a job. Sort of. Maybe. They could be. “Do you think he’s gonna nab one of the cars?”

“Didn’t you just say he’s a mobster?” It’s dark and Kate can only see the side of his face from where she’s huddled next to him, but she’s pretty sure Clint’s rolling his eyes.

“I said he’s _probably_ a mobster. Whatever he his, something’s weird about him. I got a feeling.”

“You got a feeling,” Clint parrots. “Girly, you sure it’s not called boredom?”

“I’m offended,” Kate replies, then nods her head when Pink Bow Tie digs a note out of his pocket and starts to, it would seem, check the license plates of the cars in front of him. “See? Don’t tell me that’s not weird.”

“Okay, that _is_ a little unusual.” Clint ducks a little farther into the shadow of the pole they’re hiding out behind. “Let’s see what happens next.”

Good suggestion, sensible and all, and Kate manages to watch on quietly for an endless minute or two. Pink Bow Tie doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, squints at the note in his hands, walks back and forth in front of the cars, and eventually Kate’s patience runs out. “We should move.”

“And accuse him of what, exactly?” Clint asks. He's rolling his eyes again, she can practically feel it. “Being the most clueless car thief in recorded history?”

“Yeah, genius, and what do we do if he _does_ move? If he finds the right car and gets in before we can stop him, he’s gone. My car is parked in the driveway upstairs, boxed in between Dad's and Heather's, and neither of us is carrying their quiver.”

Clint seems to consider that, and Kate knows it's been dirty pool, reminding him that neither of them brought their gear. She knows how naked he feels without his weapon of choice, since it's the same for her. Eventually, he sends another glance towards Pink Bow Tie and rolls his shoulders. “Okay, fine. Stay behind me.”

No. Definitely not. Kate's not here to stand by or play damsel in distress, and if he thinks she'll wait and file her nails while he gets to have all the fun, he's got another thing coming. “Why? I can take care of myself – “

“Calm down, I know you can. But you’re also the one wearing heels and a tight dress, and I’ve got a better range of movement in this… thing.”

“It’s a tuxedo.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Apparently you don’t.”

“Kate – “

“Fine, fine, quit arguing and get a move on, Hawkeye.”

He smiles at her use of their shared mantle and steps forward, clears his throat. “Trouble finding your car?”

Not the approach Kate would've chosen, but ah, whatever works. Pink Bow Tie flinches and wheels around, but when Kate can finally make out his face he looks... Relieved? Then he _nods_. “Yes. I, uhm. We're not from around here, and we've got a rental, and my wife wrote the model and the license plate number down for me. But I forgot my glasses upstairs. Can't read a thing.”

Now that's not what she expected.

Neither did Clint, it seems, because when the guy holds the note out for Clint to take, he turns around and glances at her with raised eyebrows. She shrugs her shoulders, and he directs his attention back to Pink Bow Tie, takes the offered note. Now it's Clint marching up and down, bowed forward a bit to better read the plates in the dim light, until he finds the car in question. Kate manfully keeps from bursting into laughter until Pink Bow Tie has climbed into his rental and driven off.

“Glad you're havin' fun,” Clint says, scowling at her.

“More than we'd have upstairs, listening to boring table talks,” she replies, cocks her head to the side and grins. “You know what'd be even more fun?”

Judging from the way his frown slips away, he's catching her drift. A few long strides and he's there, crowding her against the pole, cold concrete against her back, his mouth on her neck and her hands pulling the dress shirt out of his pants to get to skin. He's warm against her, smells of the shower gel she bought him because his was cheap and too heavy. He's nibbling his way up to her ear – which he well knows his one of her power buttons – and he's exactly where he should be.

That's when the door to the staircase opens and Heather steps out into the garage. They manage to break apart before he spots them and starts chattering immediately. “Katherine! We've been looking for you. Your father is about to hold his speech, and he wants you around for... Wait, what are you doing down here? What's going on?”

“Nothing,” Kate says, offering as sincere a smile as she can muster. “We were going for a walk, stretch our legs, you know, and there was this guy who couldn't find his car. We helped him out, and we were just about to come back up when you found us.”

Heather looks at Kate, then at Clint and back at Kate, and Kate sends a quick prayer to whoever's listening that Clint'll manage to bite his tongue. He tends to run his mouth when he's nervous – which doesn't happen often, in fact the only reason Kate knows this is because apparently women are so much scarier than supervillians and he did it at _her_ a lot when this thing between them first started – and that's the last thing they need right now.

Doesn't seem like anyone's listening, though, because she hears him draw in a breath, and yep, sure enough, off he goes. “Oh, we weren't up to anything Mrs Bishop. We wouldn't do that here... at the party... not that we're doing anything, uhm, any other time. We're not... We don't...”

Heather's eyes grow progressively wider with every word he's saying, and by the time he finally shuts up she looks downright scandalized. “I very well hope you're keeping your hands off my step daughter, because she's out of your league. Look at you.” And she does, looks at him down her nose, with the borrowed and somewhat ill-fitting tuxedo, the untucked shirt, the barely healed cut on his forehead from some gig with Wolverine last week. “Never mind the fact that she's too young for you. How old _are_ you? You're certainly no teenager.”

“Neither am _I_ ,” Kate cuts in, glaring daggers at Heather, tempted to remind her that they're basically the same age and her father is much older than Clint, but it's too late. She can see Clint's hand ball into a fist by his side, then relax, again and again. He's fallen silent, guilt clearly written on his face. They had more than one conversation about this, and she thought they were over it – it's her life and she's legal and she knows what she wants – but looks like it's still a sore spot.

With a self-satisfied huff, Heather turns on her expensive stiletto heel, calling after Kate to show up in the dinning hall _immediately_. Kate reaches for Clint's hand, not sure if she means to reassure him or herself, and her heart feels heavy in her chest when he evades her and leads the way to the staircase.

 

***

 

Kate grinds her teeth through her father's speech, smiles and shakes hands like she's supposed to for half an hour afterwards. Clint snuck out right after her father called her up, and she hasn't seen him since. She doesn't think he left – they arrived together, and he's not the type to make a dramatic exit and leave her to walk or call a cab or whatever. He'll still be around here somewhere.

She excuses herself as soon as at all possible, and after some running around she finds him in one of the hallways that lead towards the service exits. He's leaning against a wall, his jacket unbuttoned, shirt now completely untucked and hanging over his belt, and she kind of wants to eat him alive. At least until she gets a good look at his face. Still sulking, most likely thinking in circles about things that he really shouldn't worry about.

“You know she's full of shit, right?” Kate asks as she leans back next to him, mimicking his stance, close enough that their arms touch. He doesn't move away, and she counts that as a win.

A few seconds tick by before he looks up. “Doesn't matter. We're going to screw this up. I... I'm going to. It's what I do.”

That's some impressive mental acrobatics right there, starting form their age gap and ending up at his bad luck when it comes to relationships. Then again, for Clint, it's probably not too far off. He ends up at that thought a lot, she's noticed. Which is fair. He's newly divorced and his most recent relationship ended with him cheating. But she's got to believe that this is going to be different. That _they're_ different.

“I dunno if you noticed, but my track record with guys isn't exactly spotless either. The last one I dated dropped me for his evil ex, and the one before that moved across country after I bodged a mission and lost a member of my team.”

“Okay, for one, don't you dare blame yourself for what happened with Cassie, and then... is that supposed to make me feel better? Cause, if so, your pep talks need polishing.”

She inches closer still, takes his hand and entwines their fingers. “No. It's not a pep talk. What I'm saying is, maybe you'll screw up, maybe I will. Maybe neither of us will and it'll end anyway. But you know what? No matter what happens, I'll still be your partner.”

“Hmm,” is all he makes, which is as endearing as it is frustrating, and well, if that isn't just the perfect summary for Clint Barton.

She gives him another couple of minutes to finish sulking, but standing around in a hallway gets old fast and so she pushes herself off the wall, tugs at him to follow. “C'mon, Hawkeye, let's go home.”

He stops dead, holds her back and thereby forces her to turn back around and look at him. “Katie, you _are_ home.”

“No, dummy,” she says, pulling at his hand some more, urging him to get going, get out of here, go back to his place and be _them_ again. “I'm really not.”


End file.
